But What If?
by Spoofmaster
Summary: A series of oneshots looking at the 2004 film and wondering: what if one or two things had just gone a little differently? A wide variety of events and topics will be covered without favoring one character over another.
1. Fun With Sneezes

Hey folks, welcome to my first go at actual Phantom phanphiction (gosh, what a silly term) rather than just PPCing. I've got umpteen million things already going on, yes, but this is one of those nice stress relievers.

What this is is a series of one-shots exploring various possibly scenarios in which one or two relatively small things go wrong, or at least differently from the movie—and yes, I'm using the Schumacher film as the basis. I honestly don't know how often I'll be updating, as it's really just a matter of when I feel I have the time to write it.

You might be surprised at the name I use to refer to the Phantom. It stems from my friends and I seeing the 2004 film before any other version of the story, and thus not knowing Erik's proper name. One of my friends came up with the name Poot (how or why I have no idea) and it's stuck as a way of differentiating between Erik and movie!Erik.

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"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" boomed Poot from the hidden hall behind Christine's mirror.

His voice was amplified and sent throughout the room by clever acoustic modifications he had made to the walls. The walls in question shook, and Christine looked frightened at the outburst, though far from surprised by it.

"Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor," continued Poot, wanting to impress his point upon her some more in case she had somehow missed his meaning. "Sharing in _my_ triumph!"

Christine thought for a moment after he had finished, then replied, "Angel, I hear you—speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me. Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me. Enter at last, master."

She did not really see what had been so terrible about speaking to Raoul after the performance—and, after all, she had turned him away rather than going to supper with him. Despite this, she was more worried about losing her muse than anything else. She had known her angel to sulk for days at a time whenever he was at all offended. When he went into such a mood, she would only hear from him once each morning, when he would stop by to inform her that his feelings were still hurt and he still wasn't going to speak to her. Such behavior was hardly angelic, true, but any doubts she held concerning his divinity were constantly assuaged by the undeniably celestial nature of his voice.

Poot softened at her reply, the desire tugging at his heart—not for the first time—to finally put his next plan into action and meet with Christine face to face. He had readied the passages to his lair once again, just as he had on several other occasions, only to lose his nerve at the last moment and leave Christine alone in her dressing room. This time, though…yes. He would really do it this time.

"Flattering child, you shall know me," he informed her. "See why in shadows I hide," he went on, but frowned even as the words came out of him. Why on earth had he said _that_? He hoped that she wouldn't remember his exact words later on, and continued. "look at your face in the mirror. I am there, inside!"

As he said this, he lit the lamp on his side of the half-silvered mirror, allowing Christine to finally look upon him. She was coming toward him now, eyes wide with surprise and, Poot hoped, joy.

"I am your angel of music," Poot told her, slowly reaching over and unlatching the sliding mirror. "Come to me, angel of music."

He heard someone knocking on the door to the dressing room, and the muffled voice of the silly vicomte yelling something or other. Poot ignored it, knowing by the fact that he heard yelling that the lock was holding out. He slid the mirror aside even as he repeated, "I am your angel of music—come to me, angel of music."

Christine was very close now. Poot held out his hand, feeling nervous but forcing his movements to remain smooth and confident. Christine, too, put out her hand, reaching for his, and for just one moment, it seemed as if their two hands would meet and all would go according to plan.

Christine's perfume wafted up to Poot's face, tickling his nose. His face twitched convulsively, and he let out a massive sneeze.

The mask's grip on his face, already rendered tenuous by sweat and regular facial movement, gave up entirely. The mask clattered to the floor, leaving Poot suddenly exposed in the light of the lamp beside him.

Christine gasped, and Poot's hand flew to cover his face. The look of wonder which had been imprinted on her face vanished to be replaced by one of horror in the moment in which she saw his disfigurement. They stared at each other for several long, painful moments, both blinking in surprise with their mouths hanging open.

Christine was the first to move. She backed away so quickly that Poot was surprised she did not trip. She moved to the door at the opposite side of the room, her eyes never leaving Poot's face. When she found it locked, she began to rattle the doorknob desperately, apparently forgetting in her shock that she possessed the key. The vicomte's shouts on the other side of the door redoubled.

Poot watched for a few seconds, dumbstruck. Finally, for lack of anything better to do, he shouted, "DAMN!" and slammed the mirror shut, blowing out his lamp as soon as the entry was closed.

Christine, stunned by this display, ceased what she was doing and stared at the mirror, though by this time Poot had fled down the passageway. Raoul, however, fearing what her sudden silence might imply, thumped on his side of the door harder than ever, bringing her back to her senses.

Suddenly remembering the key, Christine darted forward, snatched it off the table, and let herself out of the room and into Raoul's arms. The man seemed absolutely beside himself, and she had to physically restrain him from dashing into the room.

"What on earth happened in there?" exclaimed Raoul, trembling as much or more as Christine herself.

"Nothing," lied Christine. "Only I think that I will go out tonight after all."

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Christine mulled these events over in her mind all that night, alternating between curiosity and horror when she thought of Poot's face. She could not help the feelings of revulsion that arose in her at the thought of such a face, but at the same time, she still thought of him as a sort of friend, and felt as though her thoughts toward him ought to be more charitable. Terrible his face may be, but he was no evil specter come to harm her. She was, of course, angry with him for lying to her for so long about his identity, but curiosity overrode all else, and she came to the opera house the next morning determined to get to the bottom of things.

She did not hear from her angel that day, though. She was careful to spend all of her free time alone in her dressing room in the hope that he would come to her as he had done before, but it was to no avail. She hesitated to inform anyone of her disconcerting encounter—even if she was believed, what then? The company was a suspicious lot, and would no doubt come to the conclusion that he was a malicious spirit or something of the sort.

As the afternoon wore on into evening and she neither saw nor heard any sign of Poot, Christine shored up her courage and prepared to implement Plan B. She stayed late after the night's performance, and, as the rest of the opera house fell silent, she lit a lantern and went to her mirror.

After several minutes of probing around the edges of the mirror, Christine found a piece of the frame that yielded to her touch, and pressed it. With a click, the mirror unlatched. Cautiously, Christine tugged it open wide enough for her to pass through. She lit her lantern, took a deep breath, and stepped though the looking glass.

She made her way down through the dark, stone halls, her apprehension mounting with each step. At each fork in the passageway (though there were not many), she chose always the one on the right, reasoning that at least she would be able to find her way back later. She found first a dead end—the path ahead continued downward, but was flooded to the ceiling in front of her. She backtracked to the last fork and tried again, and this time she came to a much more decorated edge of the lake, with steps leading down to a small boat and the water channeled into a sort of hallway ahead.

Before she could even stop to consider the wisdom of her actions, she clambered into the boat and took up the pole she found lying nearby. The vessel wobbled alarmingly under her, and she planted her feet as far apart as she could for balance before poking the pole into the water. It was not at all deep, and she shoved off confidently. The boat did its best to drift sideways, but she soon figured it out well enough to push it in the general direction in which she wanted to travel. She was occasionally forced to push off of the walls with her bare hands when she got too close, but she managed to make her way to where the hall opened into a cavern, and she could see, in front of her, a second cavern containing what appeared to be an island pushed up against a wall.

Her jaw dropped at the sight of literally hundreds of candles, rich red curtains, a pipe organ, and…a swan bed? Christine laughed out loud at the sight of the thing. She had seen that very bed used on the stage, and recalled easily the fuss that had been kicked up when it had mysteriously disappeared from storage. She nearly tipped the boat over, and had to sit down quickly to avoid falling out. She poled over to the island in a seated position. She nearly tipped it over again when she climbed out onto what passed for a dock, but she had managed to make the journey without dunking herself, for which she was glad.

Now that she had actually found his lair, Christine wondered why it had not occurred to her that if his boat were at the entrance, he would be out. Still, now that she had arrived, she was less than anxious to get back in the boat and return to the other side of the lake. Chances were Poot would be out for hours yet, and it surely wouldn't hurt anything if she remained for just a few minutes.

Once she had so justified her actions to herself, Christine lost no time in getting down to the business of exploring. True, there wasn't much in the way of actual space to explore, but the space that was there was absolutely packed with the most absurd range of furniture she had ever seen. Props from myriad operas crowded together, rendering the room gaudy in the extreme. Christine stopped at a desk covered in paper, and observed that it held numerous pencil sketches of herself. She stared for several long moments, brow furrowing, before turning around and heading back toward the boat. She was still curious, but the lair itself had answered most of her questions. Its location, decorations, and lived-in quality told her that she was not dealing with any ordinary person—and it frightened her.

Unfortunately, she had not thought to secure the boat when she left it, and now found it to be drifting away, the pole still in it. It was already several feet from dry land, and the sight nearly threw her into a panic. Dropping to the ground, Christine reached her arm out toward the boat, which bobbed smugly a few inches beyond her reach. She stretched out until she was sure she would fall into the water if she stretched any farther, but she could not reach the boat. She stood again, looked around for something to use to hook the boat, and settled on a freestanding candleholder nearly as tall as she was. She blew out the candles and was just lifting it out over the water when Poot arrived.

Having returned home only to find his boat missing, Poot had immediately come to the conclusion that someone was in his house. He pulled off his shoes and jacket, pulled a reed from his pocket, and slipped silently into the lake. Once in he began to breathe through the reed and picked up a stone from the bottom to aid him in staying underwater. He quickly reached his island by crawling along the floor of the lake, and spotted the boat floating in the middle of the cavern.

Wishing to entice the boat's current user to lean over the side and present a target, Poot began to sing through the reed while circling around the boat. The words of the song were lost in the effort of transmitting them through a small tube, but the melody was clear and entrancing. He became increasingly perplexed at each pass around the boat. Whoever was in the thing ought to have looked over the side within seconds of the start of the song. It finally occurred to him that maybe the boat had not been stolen at all, but had drifted away on its own after he had left it tied poorly. Nodding to himself at this conclusion and feeling rather silly, Poot dropped the rock and stood up.

Christine stopped what she was doing when she heard the voice from the lake. She set the candleholder down and listened while the voice first drew nearer to her, and then seemed to hover around the boat. When Poot emerged from the water, she let out a shriek of surprise and stepped backwards.

Poot whipped around to face Christine, and he let out a choking sound before lifting his hands to check on his mask and wig.

Once her initial shock passed, Christine had to fight an urge to laugh. Poot looked akin to a drowned rat, with water running off his chin, dripping from his sodden wig, and plastering his sleeves to his arms. She lost the fight, and a giggle escaped her lips. Poot spluttered at her in response, and waded toward the shore.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, wishing he were surer of the intentions of his wig. "How did you find this place?"

"I went through the mirror," answered Christine truthfully, gaining control of herself.

Poot grabbed the boat and brought it with him, tying it up before pulling himself out of the water and sitting to Christine's right. He reached for his head again but stopped himself. Christine noticed, and commented as she sat down beside him.

"It's a wig, isn't it?" she asked. Poot sighed in irritation and nodded. He pulled it off, looking almost relieved at no longer having to pretend the soaked, squishy thing was really his hair. He played with it for a moment, then tossed it. It landed with an unappealing splat.

Christine turned her head to look at him, and was surprised. From this side, he didn't look so bad at all. In fact, he looked entirely normal on the left. She'd expected him to have far less hair.

Poot didn't turn his head, knowing that to do so would be to show her the massive bald spot on the right side of his head.

"Why did you tell me you were the angel of music?" inquired Christine suddenly.

"What?" asked Poot, caught off guard. "That's what you came all the way down here for?"

"Yes," replied Christine solemnly. "Why did you lie to me?"

"You're the one who decided I was an angel," responded Poot. "I never intended any such thing. Then one day, out of the blue, you asked me if I was the angel of music. What was I supposed to say?"

"You were supposed to say no!" moaned Christine. "You weren't supposed to lie!"

Poot hung his head and watched her out of the corner of his eye.

"I only meant the best," he mumbled. Christine stared for a minute, then smiled. It was hard to stay angry with him when he was in this state.

"Would you mind taking me back up to my room?" she asked. Poot nodded and stood up, giving her a hand when she did likewise. He helped her into the boat, and expertly poled it back to the entryway.

During the trip back up through the passages, neither spoke. The silence went on until they were separated from Christine's dressing room only by the mirror. As he slid that entrance open, Poot turned to Christine, and finally spoke his mind.

"Will you forgive me?" he inquired.

"I'll think about it," replied Christine, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut.


	2. Fun With Stairs

Short and sweet today…or short, at any rate. I would like to thank my beta reader, Forkie, for taking a break from making inappropriate camel jokes to read over this. Come oooon, camel!

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"And do I dream again?" sang Christine as Poot began to lead her down a flight of stone stairs. "For now I—oh!"

Poot had been looking back at her again and again as they moved along, as if hardly believing she was really there. With the addition of stairs to the equation, however, it all proved to be too much for his motor skills, and down he went.

Christine watched as the angel of music tumbled down the stairs, emitting loud curses and becoming entangled in his own cape. He soon came to rest at the bottom of the steps and stopped yelling. Christine hurried down to him, concerned, but before she got there, he began to struggle.

"Stop!" laughed Christine, seeing that he was entirely trussed up in his cape, his arms pinned to his sides. "You'll rip it!"

Poot looked up at her and sighed heavily. She laughed again and knelt to untie him. As she reached toward him, however, another though occurred to her. Without warning, she darted her hand forward and snatched off his mask.

Poot stared up at her for a moment, shocked. She stared back, taking in the sight of his face. While it did immediately bring up feelings of revulsion, it somehow failed to live up to her expectations. She could see how such a face would utterly ruin one's chances in polite society…and yet, when it came down to it, it could have been worse.

"Damn you!" shouted Poot, breaking the tableau and starting the thrash around. "You little prying Pandora!"

Christine jumped to her feet and backed away in order to avoid being struck by one of his legs. Poot continued to yell insults and something about how she could no longer be free. Christine simply stood and waited for him to get it all out, noting that in the meantime he was worsening his predicament with the cape.

Poot finally finished his tantrum and lay still, fuming. He pointedly looked away from Christine, looking thoroughly uncomfortable and thoroughly pinned.

"It's really not that bad," commented Christine when she was sure he was done. Poot whipped his head around to stare at her incredulously.

"Not that bad!" he spluttered. "How can you even look at it?"

Christine shrugged.

"Well, Buquet said you had no nose, so compared to that…."

Poot snorted in derision and scowled at the ceiling. "Buquet should learn to keep his mouth shut."

"So I'm a 'little demon'?" asked Christine, returning to the words of his extended outburst.

"You _did_ pull off my mask," grumbled Poot. "It was very rude."

Christine nodded absently, playing with the mask.

"Well," Poot considered what he was about to say for a moment before saying it. "If you help me up, we could just pick up where we left off."

"That works for me," replied Christine, kneeling again. It was but the work of a moment to free Poot, who sat up, looking sheepish. He took his mask back from Christine, adjusted his wig as best he could, and stood up.

"Let's see," he muttered, putting his mask back on and brushing ineffectually at his cape, which had become a mass of wrinkles. "Ah, yes."

He reached for Christine's hand, and she gave it to him. Poot closed his eyes in concentration, hummed a note, and launched back into song.

"Sing once again with me—our strange duet!" he sang.

Christine laughed out loud. She hadn't thought he would want to pick up _exactly_ where they had left off. Poot chuckled softly as well, but held a finger to his lips before going on with "My power over you grows stronger yet!"

Christine smothered her giggles and followed when he began to move again, and the song went on.


	3. Fun With More Stairs

Short little bugger today, because I switched the order so I'd have a (somewhat) longer one in reserve. Read: There is another one coming...I just don't know when I'll post it.

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"Can it be?" wondered Raoul. "Can it be Christine?"

He stood up and applauded along with a segment of the audience despite the fact that the aria was far from over.

"Long ago! It seems so long ago," he chirped to himself, leaving his box and hurrying down the hall to the stairs. He passed a rather disapproving-looking woman who might have been either a box keeper or a ballet instructor, but paid her no mind. "How young and innocent we were!"

He reached the stairs and began to descend rapidly, looking rather silly as he did so. "She may not remem—"

His song, or rather piece of a song, was suddenly interrupted as one foot missed a step, and Raoul suddenly found himself coming down the stairs even faster than before. "Aargh!" he yelled indecorously as he tumbled to the foot of the stairs.

"M'ssieur, are you all right?" asked an anxious usher, who had rushed to the stairs when he saw the unfortunate goings-on. He quickly reached down and helped the vicomte to his feet.

"Yes, yes, thank you," replied Raoul, blushing profusely.

"Are you sure?" asked the man again, holding onto Raoul's arm.

"Yes," said Raoul, pulling his arm away and straightening his coat fastidiously. "Don't worry about it."

He stalked off, face burning. The usher grinned. Now _this_ would be a story to tell his colleagues.


	4. Fun With Dutch Tilts

I am very, very sorry for not putting this up before. I've had it for months, and completely forgot about it.

I'm trying to write actual new stuff as well, but I seem to lack motivation….

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The mob waded through the waist-deep water in the third cellar, torches held aloft. Some select few waved pitchforks instead, though where they had obtained them was a mystery to all involved.

"Hunt down this murderer! He must be found!" they sang angrily as they blundered from one dead end to another. The camera lurched onto its side between shots for the sake of tossing in a dutch tilt or fifteen, but the makeshift mob didn't seem to notice.

Meanwhile, Christine had fully donned her wedding dress after what had seemed like an eternity of awkward moments as she tried to find a private spot in which to change, while Poot did a poor job of maintaining his gaze in the opposite direction. She turned to him, and began to sing.

"Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?' she asked. "Am I now to be—I need to sit down."

She stopped without finishing her line and plopped down on the floor, looking ill. Poot wondered if he should sing about his horrible face some more, but concern for his lady love overrode his ever-present self-pity, and he knelt beside her instead.

"What is it?" he inquired. "Is it my face?"

Christine shook her head. "I'll be fine…it's just that all these dutch tilts are getting to me."

"…what's a dutch tilt?" asked a bewildered Poot.

"It's when the camera is tilted to one side so that the bottom of the frame isn't parallel to the horizon line. Some people think it makes a shot look more exciting," explained Christine as the fourth wall quietly imploded.

"…'kay…" responded Poot, creating another anachronism. "Are you sure you're not just getting sick from looking at my abhorrent face?"

"I'm sure!" snapped Christine, exasperated with his fixation. "It really doesn't even bother me anymore."

"Oh," Poot sat back and considered her answer. "Not even my eye?"

The eye stared balefully at her, leaking water from ill-formed tear ducts and generally looking unattractive.

"No," intoned Christine firmly.

"Then why—"

"You kill people!" said Christine disapprovingly. Poot stared at her, uncomprehending. Just then, Raoul splashed up to the porticullis.

"Wait," grinned Poot, a plan forming in his deranged little mind. "I think, my dear, we have a guest!"

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You know how it goes from there.


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